


Epiphany, And Other Terrible Lines

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (not dysphoria), (only addressed positively we have nothing but love for the chub here), First Kiss, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Service Top, They get better, Tim is a sweetheart, Trans Martin, Vaginal Fingering, awkward dirty talk, body issues, canon typical martin pining and self deprecation, canon typical tim stoker flirting, complicated feelings, i love them and they deserve a fun time, like theyre in artefact storage but the door is locked, little a angst, little a jealousy, pure unfiltered horny jtmcu baby, tim stoker and his massive see it from space
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:28:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24649498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: ‘Do they really not like you back, this mystery crush?’‘No. They don’t.’‘They’re stupid.’ Tim had said, and he was quiet, under all the yammering. The breath of his voice was warm on Martin’s cheek. ‘You’re a catch.’(what if we kissed in artefact storage... and we were both boys.......)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker, canon typical s1 jonmartin pining
Comments: 70
Kudos: 386





	Epiphany, And Other Terrible Lines

**Author's Note:**

> epiphany grabbed me by the balls back in feb and didnt let go till now....... so here we go ....... martim w the jon pining.... 
> 
> this fic doesnt use any explicit genital language for either of them, it's all very explicit implication ? if you see what i mean.... dw its e for sure but there are no actual words so: 
> 
> words used for martin's body are : chest (consensual - as everything is ofc - under the shirt touching), nipples, arse, plus inferred language e.g. 'inside' etc... 
> 
> hope u enjoy gang :)

It’s been about a week since Tim kissed him. 

Down the pub, in a booth at the back, elbows touching. It was far too loud in there, the lights far too bright. Not romantic. No music, just chat and a rowdy hen-do downstairs. Four pints in and Sasha was getting the next round. (Long queue.)

‘Are you  _ really _ not gonna tell me who it is?’ Tim had asked him, sticking his bottom lip out, petulant as a toddler, and Martin had resolutely shaken his head. 

‘Absolutely not.’ 

‘Even if it’s me?’ He’d batted his lashes. They’re quite long really. He does have lovely eyes. 

‘Give over,’ Martin had told him, but the slap he’d aimed at Tim’s arm had somehow landed on his neck and then they’d been quite close. 

‘Do they really not like you back, this mystery crush?’

‘No. They don’t.’

‘They’re stupid.’ Tim had said, and he was quiet, under all the yammering. The breath of his voice was warm on Martin’s cheek. ‘You’re a catch.’ 

Martin had rolled his eyes, and was going to push Tim’s face away. But as he’d said ‘yeah, yeah, you don’t have to-’ he‘d found his hand fit quite easily on Tim’s jaw and the force of it had pitched him forward slightly. He’d left his hand there. 

And then Tim had kissed him. 

A wet peck and then, with only a second’s thought in between, properly. 

Martin had been too shocked to do anything, he’d told himself, which was why he didn’t move. Only then it turned out Tim was very good at it, so he’d kissed him back. Properly too, tasting him, breathing through his nose and feeling end-of-the-week stubble scratching his jaw.

Now, a week later, standing over the photocopier, he’s remembering that tiny bit of tongue that had swept over his mouth before Sasha had slammed their glasses on the table to get their attention. He watches the laser move across the plate and remembers Tim’s hand resting, heavy, high up on his thighs, thumb in the tight dip between them. 

It’s a very inconvenient memory - he’s already spending half his time at work flustered at the moment. Any more and he’ll not get anything done. Probably isn’t a good idea to keep thinking about it. He’s trying very hard not to think about it. 

Only Tim hasn’t been teasing him about the poem this week. And he is just objectively very nice to look at. He’d be objectively hard for anyone not to think about, not once one’s started. 

Sure, it was kind of weird the other day when he’d been talking to Jon about some door to nowhere whilst sat on Martin’s desk, fiddling with Martin’s pens and shooting him ‘ _ get a load of this guy’  _ looks and smirks. Weird seeing them together now they’ve both been on Martin’s mind. 

But it’s quite a nice distraction actually. Tim is much less complicated and painful to think about than Jon is. He doesn’t nag like Jon does, and when he throws his flirty lines around it actually feels good. It’s exciting. It can’t hurt. 

And he chews pen lids when he’s concentrating and it’s sort of driving Martin mad. 

So, about a week later, on Friday afternoon (clever, Martin thinks - if something goes wrong he won’t have to face it again until Monday), when Tim announces he’s heading down to artefact storage to check something, Martin follows him. 

  
  
  


Tim jumps when the latch clicks. ‘Christ!’

‘Oh, Sorry!’ 

He laughs, breathless, runs a hand through his hair. He has nice hair. Thick. Springs back from where his hand was. 

‘Nah, that’s okay. I thought you were worms or something.’ 

‘No,’ Martin grins, shutting the door behind him, ‘I’m not worms.’ He doesn’t lock it. 

The corner of Tim’s mouth twitches. ‘No,’ he says. His tongue flicks out past his teeth as he smiles, wetting his lip. ‘No, you’re a much nicer surprise.’ He lets that hang a second in the shocked air, then goes on as if he’s said something completely harmless. ‘Did you need something?’ 

Martin stares at him, still blinking from the compliment. He tries to shake off the embarrassing pleasure of it, huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Do you always just... just  _ do _ that? Like is it natural?’ 

Tim is rifling halfheartedly through a box of cursed polaroids. Martin wonders over, hovering just far enough away from him. He could probably go closer, but he doesn’t want to push it. The gap between them seems charged to him, seems uncrossable. It would need a leap. His shuffling isn’t going to do it. He leans casually against an old filing cabinet. It’s not comfortable, hard and flat, but he does his best to look cool and natural. 

Tim doesn’t look up. Which is disappointing, but Martin supposes it’s a good thing that Tim’s comfortable around him. If he twists the facts that way it doesn’t feel like being ignored. It’s warm instead. 

‘Do what?’ Tim asks. 

‘Flirt. You never seem to turn it off.’ 

Tim chuckles. ‘Well, why would I? It’s fun. And this office hasn’t exactly got a lot of that.’ 

Oh. It’s just fun. God, he  _ always  _ goes for the unavailable ones, the  _ ‘just a bit of fun _ ’ ones. Martin’s chest sags. 

‘Oh,’ he says, ‘so you’re just winding me up, then.’ 

Tim doesn’t seem to catch his tone. He smirks into the box. ‘I hope so.’ Then he realises and finally looks up again. ‘Oh, no, I mean... are you on about last weekend?’ 

‘Yeah.’ 

Tim puts the box down, frowns. ‘No,’ he says, low and dead serious in a way that is somehow just as hot as his joking but in a darker, heavier way. The possibility somehow isn’t a joke anymore. It’s present. ‘I wasn’t just winding you up. We’re two attractive people, I thought it would be fun.’ 

‘Oh. Ok. I, uh...’

Tim meanders over like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nothing easier than to swan over to the filing cabinet and watch Martin back up into the corner the short side of it makes with the wall. He’s grinning the whole time, eyes roving up and down. 

‘You didn’t need anything from storage, did you?’ He asks. 

‘No...’

‘Do you want me to check your tongue’s not full of worms again?’ 

‘Ugh, no.’ 

Tim laughs. 'Good, ‘cause that really was a terrible line.’

‘Well, we can’t all be you, can we?’ It could very easily sound bitter but it comes out breathy and almost impressed. 

Tim nods to himself as if he’s figured out a very clever puzzle. It’s annoyingly boyish, but the way he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth and lets it go again says he knows what he’s doing. 

‘You want me to kiss you again?’ 

He takes another step forward. Martin steps back and the cabinet shakes, metal clanging, as his back hits it. Tim smirks. Smug bastard. 

‘I don’t want you to feel sorry for me,’ Martin says, trying to look up defiantly. Tim’s forearm (his very nice forearm) comes to rest on the cabinet above his head. 

‘I don’t,’ Tim frowns, ‘I mean. I guess I could, I know the whole situation kind of sucks, but...’ He shrugs it off as if it’s easy to shrug off guilt and embarrassment and feeling second best. ‘I do think, whoever they are, they’re missing out. And if that means I get you to myself then I’m not complaining.’ 

That isn’t really that comforting. Martin studies the buttons on his shirt rather than meeting his eyes. He’s not very good at taking compliments and believing them. It doesn’t feel fair to deserve them when Tim’s read the poem and seen his face when he’s daydreaming. Thought maybe it was about him. 

Well. Some of it was. The daydreaming, at least. The little pearlescent buttons on Tim’s shirt are right there and very inviting as they clack against his. 

His breathing is heavier than it was before. 

‘You know,’ Tim says, and his breath is loud too, his chest swelling and pushing against Martin’s folded arms as he inhales, ‘I didn’t need anything from storage either.’

Martin looks up at him, and he really doesn’t mean to but he hears something catch in his throat as his mouth drops open. The look on his face, as stunned as he feels, must be somewhat encouraging, because Tim’s hand comes up his chest, fingers under his chin, surprisingly subtle and gentle. 

‘I was hoping you’d come down after me,’ he murmurs, and Martin decides to kiss him. 

He kisses a bit chaotically. Hard, the distance misjudged as Tim comes down to meet him and they both huff and readjust. Tim pushes Martin’s chest back down where he’s half on tiptoe and chases his mouth into the cabinet. 

_ Oh _ . Well. Tim’s reputation isn’t built on nothing. He knows exactly where he should be. Martin sighs and threads his hands into Tim’s hair before he can decide to. He catches himself before he pulls. Not yet. Be polite. 

Then Tim’s tongue is probing gently across his bottom lip and his fingers clench when he gasps to let it in. Tim hums appreciatively, head bobbing closer as he kisses so that Martin’s fingers have to curl in tighter to stay right at the root. He kisses like he’s going somewhere. He knows exactly where he’s going, isn’t in a hurry but doesn’t once take his foot off the gas. 

His hands slide down Martin’s back and snake into the back pockets of his jeans. They paw, grabbing greedy handfuls of his arse and  _ God that’s actually... _ good. Makes him think about his body and how much of it there is to get squeezed and tugged and held in a way he actually  _ likes _ . Who’d be small? When there’s Tim’s hands to fill. 

Tim is groping at the soft plush around his hips like he’s trying to pull it into him, trying to pile it onto his own flat stomach. He could probably use some, must be rock hard under that shirt. 

Martin could find out, he realises, could actually touch him. His hands are still gingerly holding Tim’s hair but he’s probably allowed to do more. He wants to. His fingers are hot for it. 

Tim hums again and it’s so nearly like a moan that Martin does move his hands. He yanks Tim’s shirttails out of his trousers and slips his hands under the cotton, earning himself a chuckle and a heated breath sucked in through teeth. His hands go exploring, wanting more of that noise, and Tim’s body is hard, but not like the marble it could be sculpted from. He’s humanly hard, trembling and hot with give and take. He’s real. Real and here and wanting. Which is all a bit  _ sur _ real. Very rare and heady and easy to get lost in. 

Then there’s the sound of heels clacking and a slight laugh from the corridor. They’re fading away, and the fact that anyone is laughing this deep in the basement means it’s unlikely someone from their department, but still. 

Martin pulls off Tim’s mouth and looks over his shoulder at the noise, holds his breath until the clacking fades to nothing. Then a little longer. 

Tim strokes the tension out of his cheek. ‘Hold on a sec.’ 

He goes to lock the door. The air where he’s been is instantly cooler when he leaves - warm with where he’s been but lacking the  _ heat.  _ It might have been a reality check but Martin misses it even as he hears the key turning. 

(There’s a lock on the inside now too, because of the worms. One of Jon’s paranoia installations.)

When Tim comes back he doesn’t go in for another kiss. Instead, he plops himself down on the floor, legs crossed. Martin can’t help but laugh at him looking up expectantly. 

‘Care to join me?’ He says, ‘floors not that bad. Or -’ he pats his thighs, ‘spare seat?’ 

‘You’re awful,’ Martin tells him, trying not to smile. ‘Genuinely, that’s a terrible line.’ 

He sits very decidedly on the floor. His back is against the filing cabinet, but it doesn’t stay there long. Tim’s hand finds his cheek - he’s under no illusion about having a jawline - and pulls him forward to drag a long, long kiss from him, tongue heavy and hot in his mouth. 

‘It’s cool if you don’t want to,’ Tim says, close still as they pull apart, ‘I guess it was a bad line.’ 

He sounds vaguely amused at his own let down. But there’s a note of something else, and it pokes deeper than the heat of the moment, the heat which is saying ‘ _ yes you do want to’,  _ prodding at Martin’s instinct to comfort. It’s at least less embarrassing for him to reassure Tim than to admit he wants something for himself. 

‘No, I- I do want to,’ he promises, and his voice comes out a lot more ragged than he meant it to, breath hot in his mouth and mixing with Tim’s as it’s taken for another deep kiss. 

Tim’s hands are all over his chest, round his middle, up his back rucking up and creasing his shirt. His head is spinning when he next comes up for air. ‘Wait,’ he asks, going red, ‘want to what?’ 

Tim grins against the side of his face. He hums in thought, his hands roaming again. They play with a couple of buttons, undo the top two. 

‘I don’t know. Whatever you want.’ He shuffles forward and his knee knocks against Martin’s belt buckle. ‘I could try another line?’ 

Martin thinks but doesn’t need to long. He does know what he wants. It’s embarrassing to ask, though. Even though he’s been reassured,  _ is _ sure, really, he’s still not one-hundred percent that it’s a great idea. He’s still hoping to avoid it backfiring. But then again... all the hair on his arms is standing up and his body is screaming at him to move. 

So he moves. Leaps across the gap. 

He climbs into Tim’s lap, straddles his thigh and pushes, seeking friction before he can change his mind. If Tim didn’t know before he will now, he thinks, as he grinds down onto the crotch seam of his jeans. 

Tim huffs in surprise but he takes another kiss with sloppy enthusiasm. His hand pushes in between them, ghosting over Martin's flies, sliding down and back. He pushes the seam in further and his breath shudders against Martin’s throat. 

‘Oh,’ he says. 

‘Yeah,’ Martin says. He has the spiel all prepared and well practiced from hookups, but he doesn't get to start. 

Tim gives him a heavy kiss, a reassuring one with heat in it, mouth open and wanting. He slides one finger slowly back and forth, fingernail grazing the seam. 

‘God,’ he says, low and gravelly, ‘can I finger you?’ 

Martin freezes with the shuddering shock of getting exactly what he wants. He doesn’t say anything and Tim’s hand comes round his cheek again, sweaty now and weighty. Still sweet. 

Tim huffs a laugh. ‘Sorry, that’s not exactly a sexy word. Should’ve... I don’t want to say the wrong thing-’ 

‘No, it’s. Ah.’ Martin’s throat is dry and the way Tim is looking at him makes his tongue trip over itself. He gathers his breath and kisses the heel of Tim’s hand. ‘Yeah,’ he manages, ‘yeah, you can. I’d, uh, that would be-’ 

Tim grins. God, he has the most unbearably attractive smug boyish grin on his face as he pulls Martin’s leg out from under him and slings it round his waist. His hand strokes slowly up and down Martin’s thigh, creeping higher and higher each time until he’s cupping between his legs. Martin can feel the pads of his fingers even through the denim and his head rolls back against the cabinet.

The hand on his cheek skates down his neck, fingers stretching lightly under his collar, over his throat. Tim’s other hand is making short work of his button fly. 

‘Alright?’ Tim’s asking, and Martin nods, shifting forwards, making Tim hum what starts as a laugh and turns to a contented groan as his hand makes it past the buttons. 

The angle is bad. Tim’s wrist cramped between them, shoved between denim and chest and stomach. His fingers curl over the damp spot and they both suck in a wanting breath. 

‘Let’s get you out of these...’

There’s no debate on the matter. They scramble backwards, both scraping their knees, toeing out of shoes, tugging and pushing together in a mess until Martin’s jeans are scrunched up over his ankles. Tim pulls them past his feet, tosses them aside and hungrily comes back to Martin’s mouth. They kiss for a moment against the cabinet before Tim’s fingers curl round the hem of Martin’s boxers. 

Martin nods, crossing his arms behind Tim’s head to lift himself off the floor. Tim pulls his pants up, over his knees and down, helps him out of them and onto his knees so he’s not sitting half-naked on the floor. The room is colder now he’s exposed. He shivers with it. And with something else as the cool air hits the hot inside of his thighs. 

He shuffles closer to Tim and, seeking the warmth of his chest, moves his hands down to the hem of his shirt. Tim grins when he puts his arms up, kisses Martin once before his face is covered with cotton and once after. His chest is hot and hard, and swells as it rises and falls. 

The air between them is thick with breathing, hot air hitting their chests as their eyes both hang downwards. Their foreheads are touching, the beginnings of sweat against sweat, as Martin climbs back into Tim’s lap, straddling both his knees, raised just above sitting on his thighs. Their stomachs land gently against each other with each exhale. 

Tim’s hands are wandering again under his shirt, over Martin’s hips and the dimples in his back and down, kneading into arse and Martin is aching where he’s not quite pressed against Tim’s thigh. He wants friction and he wants to scream at Tim to get on with it but all he has is an impatient set of breathy noises. 

Tim chooses to ignore them. He fingers the last few valiant buttons of Martin’s shirt. ‘You want this off?’ 

Martin shakes his head and Tim frowns - maybe disappointed for a second but quickly falling to concern. 

‘It’s okay,’ Martin tells him, no longer cross when he’s being so sweet. ‘You can touch me, it’s just,’ he half laughs, ‘feel a bit exposed..? And it’s kind of cold down here...’ 

Tim runs two sly hands up under Martin’s shirt, testing the last buttons, and gives a cheeky checking smile before thumbing over his nipples. 

‘Think I can help you warm up,’ he teases and Martin groans only half at his terrible lines as one hand slips down. 

There are no barriers for it now, and it curves, unimpeded but slow, over the smooth of his stomach until it finds the beginnings of hair. Tim sighs out. He splays his fingers through the thick thatch, pinches them together, curls them and just gently  _ pulls _ . Martin’s exhale comes straight from his navel, rough and low.  _ Oh fuck, he’s going to go so slowly.  _ His forehead slips down onto Tim’s shoulder. 

Tim’s hand is very gentle, moving down achingly slow, and the first tiniest bit of contact is already so much and far far too little. His fingertip just dips between the folds and Martin actually shudders. 

‘Christ,’ Tim murmurs, ‘Christ you’re so wet.’ 

Martin whines into his hair. 

‘Sorry, I’ll do something about it shall I?’ 

_ Bloody tease. _ Martin nips at the side of his neck to make him hurry up. And nearly bites him properly when two fingers skate up and crook, in just the right place to make his stomach suck up, lifting with shock and lowering back with ache onto Tim’s hand. 

He’s actually pulsing, thinks he can feel the blood pumping as it all rushes down. Tim presses his finger further, right to the pool where the slick comes away thick and unbreaking and they both breathe in, hard and sucking. Tim’s mouth moves hot over Martin’s earlobe, the back of his cheek, in a way that could be a kiss. He thumbs slowly round the nipple he’s been idling, like he’s trying to make Martin forget just how close he is to inside him. Then he slips another finger down to join the first and Martin is definitely not ever going to forget this. The sound Tim makes is... something. Really something and Martin feels himself swelling hot around his fingers as they start slowly sliding back and forth. 

‘You’re so hot’ Tim groans into his jaw, which is unforgettable too. It’s so nice to hear somebody say it and to believe it for the first time in a long time. 

Martin says nothing, just breathes into the space between their chests, his head hung low, watching Tim’s hand move away minutely only to get sucked back. 

He watches, as those fingers pull away from him and groans. Doesn’t hear what Tim says but watches them trace up his chest, glistening in the shadows. Feels them wet and tacky when they settle under his chin. 

Tim tilts his head up and looks at him with his pupils blown. 

‘We’re going to have to find a use for this mouth of yours....’ He says, stroking Martin’s chin, ‘You’re very quiet.’ 

‘We’re at work,’ Martin reminds him, trying to sound schooling rather than scandalised. 

‘Door’s locked,’ Tim says, tracing his bottom lip with a slick thumb, ‘and it’s not as if he ever leaves his bloody office anyway.’

Thinking about Jon when he can taste himself is definitely not a good idea. Martin tries hard not to, but in trying not to he inevitably sets himself up to fail. And Tim has no idea. A pulse of guilt shudders through him. He freezes up for a second and Tim is sweet enough to notice. 

‘Alright?’ He frowns, ‘is it good?’

Martin would tell him he’s never been one for talking. It seems like stating the obvious to him, not much benefit. If it’s not good he’ll say, but asking isn’t easy when you’ve trusted the wrong person and ruined a hot memory one too many times. All that’s a mouthful to explain. So instead he pulls Tim’s thumb into his mouth and sucks it, wanting to feel him, taste him, hear him say it again - 

‘God, you’re so hot.’ 

He swills his tongue around it, tasting the salt of his own arousal, lapping it up. Tim groans and the sound is croaky and low in the back of his throat. His wet fingers spread over Martin’s jaw as he snakes his other hand down instead. 

His fingers are dry and cool this time, and the contrast makes Martin sigh around his thumb. When they start slowly curling, slicking themselves up, he swallows and his jaw bobs against Tim’s tacky fingers. Both Tim’s hands are relaxed. Gentle even as they’re teasingly slow. When they push against the rim between outside and soaked inside they’re questioning even though they know bloody well what they’re doing. 

Tim waits, pulls his thumb free and kisses the sweat and slick off Martin’s mouth without any hurry or tongue. Just the press of his mouth and the press of fingers and that’s about all there is. Martin makes whatever shape of affirmation he can against Tim’s kiss when it lets him breathe and Tim groans back between his lips. 

The breach he’s ready for doesn’t quite come that simply. Tim doesn’t piston in like he’s trying to fill up space. His fingers flicker around the edge, dip in and out, spreading wetness loudly like he has all the time in the world. He doesn’t treat inside like it’s the back of the net, just another place to touch. To revere. 

It’s good, quietly good. Not intense yet in a spiking way but  _ fucking _ right on the right track. Right slowly, but Martin’s breath, and the pulse in his chest and between his legs is picking up with every pull of fingertips against the right rough spot. He goes quiet when it’s right like that, chews down on his bottom lip preemptively, ready to hold it when the groan threatens the hot silence. Eyes closed. He just listens - to the muffled pants and that obscene wet smacking sound as Tim steadily fucks into him. 

‘Is it good?’ he feels Tim asking against his neck. 

Martin just nods, teeth denting his lip. Tim knows it is, must do when he starts gentle strokes with his thumb. Cocky bastard. 

But he keeps asking. ‘Does it feel good?’ 

‘You- uh-’ Martin huffs, stifles a low groan, ‘You know...’

‘Will you tell me?’ Tim asks again, and he’s basically whispering, his voice as soft as his kisses. Maybe even needy. ‘Please, I... I like to hear it-’

Martin opens his eyes, pulls back a little. ‘Oh? You-?’

‘Yeah, it’s, uh,’ Tim ducks his head, huffs a helpless laugh. 

He’s not embarrassed, it sounds, but maybe a little sheepish. He probably doesn’t have to ask for things much, usually gets what he wants in giving. Or has people falling over themselves to do more than just sit here and - 

‘It’s really hot for me,’ he admits, and he’s smiling somehow even though he’s pink as anything. ‘Could you-?’

‘Yeah,’ Martin promises, ‘yeah,’ again, kissing him now. He sucks on Tim’s good, bashful tongue, thinking through his lightheadedness. ‘You feel so good,’ he whispers, when he comes up, and grasps around for something else. Tim’s fingers crook forwards and a whine bubbles up in his throat, spilling out of his open mouth as words he’s not sure he even recognises as his. ‘Fuck, Tim, you- uh, you fuck me so-’

He breaks off hard as Tim pushes deeper, slower, and presses his thumb in like he’s trying to touch his fingers. The pressure of it is shakingly tight, making his hips buck into Tim’s chest. He bites down hard on his lip to stop from shouting.

‘Wish we didn’t have to be quiet,’ Tim groans against the shell of his ear, ‘wish I could hear you moan...’

Martin’s bottom lip is sliding free of his teeth and the cracking sound of a high keen is on the tip of his tongue when someone knocks at the door. 

‘Hello?’ 

It’s Jon.

_ Oh Christ, it’s Jon.  _

Martin’s hand clamps hard over his mouth. 

‘Is anyone in there?’ 

The door handle rattles. 

Tim looks down and swears. He looks back at Martin and for a second his eyes have something questioning in them that makes Martin shake his head desperately. 

Tim swears again and pulls his fingers out far too loudly. He pushes Martin off him and gets up shakily. 

‘Tim?’ Comes the voice from the door. 

‘One second!’ Tim calls back, wiping his hand on his hip. 

Martin curls in behind the cabinet. His breathing is hard and hot against his palm and he screws his eyes tight shut. But it doesn’t work - he isn’t melting. He’s still here and he needs to know what’s happening, so he sticks just enough of his head round to see.

Tim is shucking on his shirt, flapping it down to sit straight. He takes a breath before he unlocks the door and opens it just a crack. He stands with his back to the wall - still half hard, the hand that was inside Martin flat against the door, holding it shut. Just above it, a few inches higher, on the other side of the frosted glass, is Jon’s hand pushing it open. Their silhouettes could be palm to palm. 

Jon is talking about some book or other. Martin can’t bear to look at the shadow of his mouth as he talks, and pulls back into the corner, squishing himself against the wall. 

He crosses his legs, suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s sitting on the floor with nothing but a shirt and socks on. It’s not warm in the basement. 

_ God, what is he doing?  _ He listens to Tim making excuses and feels awful. It squirms around in his stomach as the conversation goes on for what feels like years. 

Eventually Jon leaves and the door clicks shut. Martin hears Tim lock it again and waits, listening to his approaching footsteps, for him to come back to view. 

When he does he is actually chuckling. He sits down on the ground and ducks his head into Martin’s lowered eye-line. 

‘Well,’ he says, slapping his knees, ‘that was just a bit of a mood killer.’

Martin doesn’t laugh. 

‘What?’ Tim asks, and he sounds genuinely concerned which only makes it worse. ‘It’s alright, he didn’t know.’ Then something changes in his voice, in the posture of his vowels. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘Oh it’s him, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ Martin admits, eyes hot and blinking. He rushes into his apologies. ‘God, Tim I’m so sorry, I should never‘ve come down after you-’

Tim waves his hand. ‘Nah, don’t be. I knew you liked someone else, didn’t I?’

‘I feel like a dickhead,’ Martin says, even though it isn’t helpful. He should just say sorry and leave it there but his stupid mouth is running like a bolting horse, and his half halts only jerk at his teeth but don’t stop them pouring out. ‘God, this is so bad, I’d hate me right now if I were you, I’m so sorry, I never meant to... I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

Tim lets him finish. He seems to realise this isn’t just a sorry for the sake of it and flops into a proper seat with one knee up in front of him. ‘I don’t hate you,’ he promises quietly, leaning his chin on his hands on his knee.

But he looks a bit down. His eyes aren’t quite as open as they were before. As they were when he was being vulnerable and asking... God if he doesn’t just deserve better. Martin is going to say something else, he really is, something better that isn’t just guilty and is actually good for something. But then Tim smiles a joking smile. 

‘Him?’ He asks, and Martin groans a laugh.

‘I  _ know _ .’ 

‘But he’s such an arsehole.’

‘I know,’ Martin says again, but he can’t help smiling at the ground as he shakes his head, ‘but-’ Tim laughs and he presses on. ‘But I think it’s a front or something. I think he’s probably quite sweet. Maybe. Underneath it all.’ 

He glances up and Tim is looking at him properly now, coy little cheeky grin back and chin in his hands like a cherub. His eyebrows are steadily rising. Martin drops his head into his hands, groaning and going fire-engine red. 

‘Am I the most pathetic person in the world?’

‘No,’ Tim says genuinely, then, poking his cheek, ‘in London maybe.’ 

Martin jerks away from his teasing finger, drags a hand over his eyes. ‘God’s sake...’ 

They both laugh into a lull. Martin peeks through his fingers, then drops them with the teasing. As the smiles are awkward to hold any longer, they drop into soft closed lips and waiting. The quiet isn’t quite charged, isn’t quite sleepy. Martin watches Tim’s brow, eyes squinting as he looks over at the skirting board in the opposite corner. He’s thinking, so Martin gives him a second, waits for him to decide what he thinks with his breath only held a little. He trusts Tim, he reminds himself, as guilt twists into his fingers. 

‘You weren’t thinking about him,’ Tim asks eventually, ‘were you?’

‘God, no!’ Martin promises, shifting in as many centimetres closer as he dares whilst trying to radiate the abject  _ sorry  _ that demands distance as non-pathetically as possible. ‘No, I was thinking about you, or I mean-’ he can’t help that he’s still a bit pink as Tim’s eyes soften. ‘I was just here. With you.’ He pauses, then tries a smile himself so Tim doesn’t feel guilty about him looking guilty. ‘It was good,’ he says, a bit small but honest. Really honest. 

‘Okay,’ Tim smiles now, and it’s a bit shyer than his smug grins. 

It could have been him, Martin thinks. It could easily have been him. That would have been so sensible. Then it would all have worked out and it would have been nice and he never would have done something this insensitive, this selfish. 

Tim’s hand covers his where it’s lying on the hard floor. He picks it up and plays lazily with Martin’s fingers. 

‘Do you want to finish?’ he asks, with a soft smile. Too soft really. He’s really  _ still _ not built his walls back up. 

Martin cannot understand him. ‘I’m not sure,’ he answers slowly, honestly. 

He could probably leave it. If he was being good about the whole thing he could just shake it off. Then he sees Tim’s mouth drop slightly and hurries on again- 

‘You should,’ he rushes to clarify, to reassure though he knows it’s coddling and they shouldn’t need to make time for it. ‘I mean you deserve to, just- I feel a bit crappy now.’ 

Tim folds their fingers around each other, squishes palm to palm. ‘Yeah,’ he hums, ‘me too.’ 

‘I’m sorry-’ 

‘It’s  _ okay _ ,’ he tells Martin, firmly but a little amused. Back to his normal self. ‘I think I know how we can make ourselves feel better.’ 

He goes in for a kiss, sweet, tasting of the sweat and jokes of before, but not gentle as to make it deserving of guilt. He doesn’t waste too much time slipping his tongue in, warm but not consoling. Like nothing went wrong. He sweeps it over the back of Martin’s teeth like he’s wiping the slate. It’s nothing if not persuasive. 

‘Are you sure?’ Martin checks, as if his bottom lip isn’t hanging inside Tim’s mouth. He has to check anyway. 

Tim huffs a half laugh, warm as it hits his tongue. ‘Maybe we’re both a bit pathetic,’ he says. 

Martin pulls back a little, pulls their clasped hands back with him. ‘I don’t think you’re-‘ 

‘Me neither,’ Tim assures him. His tone drops out of the joke easily, into the weighty seriousness that Martin is slowly getting used to on his always-smiling face. He leans in for a limby, slightly awkward embrace, all the more endearing for its angles.

His hand comes free and strokes up Martin’s calf, circles round his knees, barely touching, easing them apart. Martin breathes heavily into the hair at his temple, feels it flutter against his dry mouth, and lets his legs fall open. Tim slides a hand slowly down his thigh. 

‘Still want you...’ he murmurs, and his voice is heavy and thick. 

Martin swallows. ‘I still, uh...’ he falters and hopes Tim will kiss him so he can kiss back what he means rather than fumbling with words. 

Instead Tim drops a kiss to the top of his chest, just at the high point of his sternum where his collar pinches closed at the third button. ‘Do I make you feel good?’ he asks.

‘Yeah...’ Martin sighs against his forehead. Two fingers trace through the hair right at the crease of his inner thigh. ‘Yeah you do.’ 

Tim hums. ‘It would make me feel so good if you came on my hand.’

He grazes where he needs to and Martin almost slips as his feet actually come off the floor. 

His mind might have had a blip but turns out his body is still humming like a live wire. Still hot and swollen and aching. He doesn’t like to think about what that says about him, or about how Jon’s voice seems to have done the opposite of kill the mood. All he’ll think about is just how little this is going to take - 

‘Slowly,’ he groans to the ceiling, already out of breath and grabbing at Tim’s shirt, ‘God, please, I don’t need-‘ 

Tim sighs and just lets his fingers dip in and rest, up to his first knuckle in wet. 

‘Fuck, look at you,’ he murmurs as he comes in for a kiss.

It’s that same heavy, languid kiss he’d teased with at the beginning, only now his breath is quicker, and the air they’re swapping is perfumed with sweat and something else salty and tart and fucking  _ hot.  _ Tim’s fingers crook as he pulls back, splay out over slick and swollen lips as he pushes his tongue forward again with fierce slowness. 

‘He’s an idiot’ he whispers bitterly when he comes up for air between kisses. His teeth scrape. ‘He’s an idiot, Martin...’ 

God, it’s... it shouldn’t be doing anything. It definitely is. The pleasure of being coveted, prized, desired - it all goes straight through Martin and he tightens around nothing, around the hint of a fingertip. The jealous edge in Tim’s voice is more than a bit dizzying. The only thing sobering him from leaning fully into it is the fact that it just makes him think about Jon in the way he’s  _ really _ been trying not to. 

He sucks in a breath, pushes Tim off with a hand cupping his jaw. 

‘Tim...’ he sighs. He wants to be as nice as Tim is, to be generous, make him feel good too. Tim deserves it - with his hair mussed and his pupils blown and his buttons uneven and hanging open. 

Martin looks into his eyes with a decisiveness he knows surprises people. ‘I don’t want to think about him right now,’ he says. And he still might, maybe, but he really means it. 

‘Fine by me,’ Tim agrees, and his Casanova smirk returns as he ducks his head to make a mission out of sucking Martin’s neck. 

He sucks hard, hard enough to be jealous even though they promised not to think about it, and the noise of it is filthy loud. Then there’s the sloppy clicks of his lips, the gulps as he swallows down spit, the wet back and forth of his slow fingers. And under it, soft scraping. The rasping sound the inside of Tim’s wrist makes against his thick hair. The sting of it when it pulls, matted and tight at the follicles, makes his head rush. 

‘That’s good,’ he remembers to say, and Tim hums into his collar, rewarding him with fingertips sliding further underneath him, poised.

‘Inside?’ Tim asks with a soft kiss to the spot he was marking dark. Martin nods. 

‘Yeah, please-’ he sighs as Tim slips back into him easily, still and slick and full, ‘but-’

‘Here?’ Tim tries, thumb pushing up and making Martin’s entire gut go taut with how close it is to perfect.

‘Ah, ah, ah,’ he says, when he really means  _ up, harder.  _

He’s going to say it, or try to, or just will it hard enough it’ll hopefully work. Then Tim’s clever hand finds exactly where it needs to be and Martin arches off the cabinet, his hair staticked to the metal. His breath comes in ragged pants. 

‘Stay there,’ he scrambles, hands clenching in Tim’s hair, ‘just stay there, God, don’t move-’

Tim stays there and Martin grinds down onto his hand until his legs are shaking and his hips are canting so much he’s not in charge anymore. 

‘I’m gonna-’ he starts and can’t finish because the moan he pushed back earlier is forcing its way out of his mouth. 

And Tim, kind clever Tim, knows just to move the tiniest bit and keep the rhythm there for a few seconds. He holds the back of Martin’s head with his other hand so he doesn’t bash it on the cabinet. 

With his eyes screwed shut there’s only patterns and pressure and the lurching, tight feeling around Tim’s hand. It’s building, and he’s clutching at anything that might hold him together when it breaks. Hands clawing, legs squeezing. Jesus,  _ fuck _ . A whole string of broken noises are falling out of his mouth and if he had thought to he’d plug them, but he’s so close and Tim’s mouth is smiling against his stretching neck. His muscles are going to cramp his legs are going to give out and he’s trembling and fuck he’s going to fall -

Then he’s coming and flooding the floor beneath him. The corners of his mouth strain in a wide open and silent shout and he’s still shaking. Trying to get closer and away and  _ closer _ . He tenses again, tenses all over, feet off the floor, toes curling, and then wet gushes with the screaming release. It pools in Tim’s palm, drips off his fingertips and he sighs loudly, gutturally against Martin’s jaw. 

‘Shit,’ Tim murmurs, ‘God, you’re beautiful. You good?’

Martin doesn’t answer, barely hearing him, still panting. The giddy happiness of  _ done  _ is washing over him, lapping calmly and he could be on holiday right now instead of on a grimey concrete floor. He could be somewhere sunny. He feels everything Tim says he is, and exhausted, and heady with flowery bliss. 

Tim’s mouth gentle on his cheek brings him back. ‘Can you- do you want to go again?’

Martin could honestly take it or leave it. Tim’s fingers still feel good where they are, not over sensitive yet. The thumb tiding him over is light enough not to hurt. Still, his eyelids are threatening to flutter shut. He could fall asleep right here with Tim’s hand for a pillow. 

But he's grateful, so grateful and wants to put his hands on something. So, instead of answering, he grabs Tim’s jaw and kisses him without any air in his lungs. Tim breathes a laugh but it catches as in his throat as Martin pushes past his flies. 

God, he’s  _ throbbing _ , a wet spot soaking through his boxers just from watching, touching, being good. The feeling of it under his fingers spurs Martin on. He shoves the layers down to Tim’s knees and takes him in hand without teasing. 

‘You’re gorgeous,’ Martin tells him, because it’s true, and because he’s said he wants to hear it, because he’s been so complimentary this whole time. 

Tim groans, fingers slipping out and gripping, white-knuckled and wet into Martin’s thigh. He braces his forearm (his very nice forearm) against the cabinet, sinks his head into Martin’s collar. 

‘Fuck,’ he croaks, ‘Christ, I’m so close, will you -?’

‘What?' Martin asks. Tim hisses as his hand starts moving, slowly tugging towards him. 'What, tell me-‘ 

‘Just keep talking.'

Oh. Okay then. 

‘You're gorgeous,' Martin tells him again, trying to make it sound how it's supposed to - sultry, breathy without being out of breath. 

He is out of breath still, though. His brain flounders for anything else - he's good at making people feel better, likes to think he's alright with his hands, but has never been chatty like Tim is. As he’s coming down from his own peak he’s struggling to reach the same buried part of him he had before. It feels a little bit odd in his mouth again. Thrilling, yeah, but he’s sure it must sound odd.

‘You're so hot,’ he tries, ‘I, uh, you feel so good in my-'

Tim actually mewls then. His mouth is ragged and open, pressing into Martin's neck, lips smudging side to side like he's shaking his head. 

‘About you,' he says, weak and grating and desperate. 

_ Oh. Okay.  _

Martin swallows. ‘You, uh, you're very good at fingering,’ he tries, not sure how much it’s a wind up.

‘Fuck's sake,' Tim growls a laugh that turns into moan with a careful twist of Martin's hand. 

Martin sucks in a breath and does it again. It's as hot as it is astounding, seeing Tim like this. He’s so controlled and well practiced in his flirting. Cool and calm around the office. Now he looks a pink and swollen wreck. 

‘You made me feel so good,' Martin whispers, Tim's hair clinging to his lips. The words seem to work like they have done every time - Tim hums and shivers in the crook of his neck. 

He works his hand faster and then has an idea, an obscenely genius one. He slips his other hand down Tim's chest and dips back between his own legs, shivering only slightly at the graze of his dry fingers. 

‘Made me so wet,' he says, though his throat is dry. He takes Tim in both hands, slicks him up and down with the proof. 

Tim swears and Martin thrills with it. His heart is blushing in his mouth as he keeps talking, keeps stroking. 

‘Feel that?’ He says, low over the wet sound of it. ‘You did that, fucked me so good, made me come so hard-' 

‘Christ, Martin-' Tim's forehead slips and collides loudly with the cabinet. 

‘Shit, sorry!' Martin gasps, but Tim grabs his wrist desperately and guides it, hard and fast and unsteady. 

Another second and he comes with an ugly, croaking groan and a string of shattered curses that don’t seem to fit his perfect mouth and Martin could be just a little bit in love with him. 

Another moment and the choke dies in his mouth. He goes completely boneless against Martin’s chest, sighs, laughs a little breathlessly. He is heavy in the nicest way possible. His stomach ripples as it heaves and he has nothing but gently pecking kisses for Martin’s neck, the soft underside of his chin. Nothing to say now, which Martin is taking as a compliment

It's nice, their breathing coming back together in tandem, the ridiculousness of it washing over them, creeping back up-shore. Feelings creep back with it, oxytocin-dosed affection mostly, droopy and silly. Martin strokes Tim’s damp fringe where it’s sticking to his neck as they lap at the little island he’s imagining they’re on. But as the endorphins start fading they’re whetting the little chastened edge underneath them. 

He doesn’t wish it were anyone else. Tim is a catch. He’s sexy and he’s kind and, yeah, he said a lot, but he called Martin ‘beautiful’. So no, Martin doesn’t wish there was anyone else’s hair matted to him with sweat they sweated putting in effort for him of all people. But he is maybe  _ wondering _ a little. Just curiously. Tim's hair is thicker than Jon’s is, he thinks, coarser in a way that feels nice to bounce his hand on. He has a bit of dandruff actually. Which is somehow sweetly human of him. 

The floor is suddenly harder and colder: back to the concrete it was when he thought this was a bad idea. The delayed guilt all comes at once and Martin knows he needs to say something. It’s unfortunate that he says ‘we should go,’ at the same time as Tim says: 

‘Thank you.’ 

He scrambles, red and shamed. ‘Sorry, I mean. Thank you. That was great, I just -’

Tim chuckles, kisses Martin’s jaw where it’s turned away to the floor. ‘We should go.’ 

Then he stands, waving his hand ‘ _ don’t worry _ ’, and goes rummaging for something to clean up. When he comes back he’s cringing, holding a manky looking old tea towel. 

‘Sorry,’ he says, squatting down, ‘don’t worry, I wouldn’t deign to go anywhere near you with this, probably cursed if nothing else but... the floor.’ 

'God...' Martin shifts, hides his flaming face in his elbow. 

'Don’t,’ Tim tells him firmly, pushing his arm back down. ‘wasn't just you, was it? Anyway, it’s really hot.’ 

‘You keep saying that.'

‘Keeps being true.’ 

He leans in on the hand that’s rubbing the tea towel round for another quick kiss. 

He’s  _ really _ not embarrassed, Martin wrestles to comprehend. And he’s not going to leave first. It’s very new. Tim stands, pushes the tea towel round with his foot and doesn’t even grimace. He offers Martin a hand to pull him up, catches him shivering and chucks him his jeans. 

‘Thanks,’ Martin mumbles, offering him a smile before he turns away. He feels Tim watching him as he pulls on his jeans commando.

‘Oi, do you, uh-‘ He turns back, sees Tim picks his pants up off the floor. The elastic hangs playfully off his index finger. ‘Do you want these?’ 

Martin rolls his eyes through the blush that’s threatening his ears. He’s not about to put them back on - can smell it from here. ‘Well, I guess I can’t leave them lying around...’

‘Be a good prank...’ Tim smirks, pulling and snapping the elastic. 

'No!’ Martin snatches then off him, his ears going even redder. 

‘Boss’s office?’ Tim grins and Martin smacks him about the head with his underwear. 

‘Don’t you dare start!’

‘Fine, fine!’ Tim throws his hands up in surrender, ducking away from another slap. ‘I’m not judging!’ 

Martin scoffs a laugh but watches him with an insecure suspicion as he pulls his shirt back on. He knows it’s fair to judge. Very easy to. And he knows it isn’t anything to do with Jon, really. Well, a bit. There’s nothing wrong with him face-wise, Martin thinks he’s not too biased in saying that, but obviously he’s... him. Criticism and pedantry in that voice. Stress only making him choke his tie tighter. Straight laced so tight he’ll say ‘concerned’ rather than ‘worried’. 

But it’s more about  _ him,  _ isn’t it? That’s the shameful part. That Martin has always gone for the ones he can’t have - that aren’t as excited as him, don’t feel as much as he does. From the beginning it’s been the ones that’ll say thank you for a favour, happily lay him out in the back of their mum’s Civic, but leave him waiting by the phone. 

And always, through the bitterness and betrayal, he’ll see something better in them. They’re sweet underneath it all. It’ll be better this time. All it takes is one crumb of selflessness thrown his way, or one adorable chink in the unavailability-armour and he’s smitten. That’s the vibe he gives off if in desperate waves, the part that makes Tim’s brows crease in confusion and distaste and worry. 

‘Just,’ Tim says, hesitating with a sigh. ‘Be careful there, won’t you? Sorry I’m not trying to be a mother or- I’m not saying choose me. Really not saying... that. I just... I wouldn’t want you to set yourself for heartbreak.’ 

Martin sighs, and his heart isn’t  _ breaking  _ but it clutches in his chest at Tim’s sweet-voiced unease. He smiles heavily, thinking what he could only have had if it wasn’t too much. If he hadn’t started a pattern. He wishes he could say something reassuring. He doesn’t like how worry sounds in Tim’s mouth, the opposite of well practiced. It suits his own better. 

But even though Jon’s far from the first aloof, unattainable man he’s ever fancied, Martin is already feeling it might take longer to shake than a bad habit should be when you know it’s a bad habit. Something feels different when Jon goes off on one of his info-dumping rants and his eyes light up. Maybe it always feels different. He’s not entertaining it. Only he is a bit now he’s been offered the bed downstairs. Only in his notebook which barely counts. 

‘I think it’s a bit late for that,’ he says, quietly matter of fact. 

Tim unconsciously tuts once as he breathes out what he was holding, but he gives Martin a gracious, understanding nod. In the quiet that follows, time drags like a tense mouth slow on a cigarette, and Martin reaches for the escape from it. 

‘God, speaking of-’

He pulls out his phone to check the time. It’s nearly half five. Everyone else will be going home. The corridors will be busy any moment. And Jon will be shut up in his office with no intention of leaving. He’ll want caffeine and need comfort and it’s about the time Martin normally brings him tea. 

‘Are you going home?’ He asks Tim, very casually, as he heads to the door, smoothing a hand over his mussed up hair. 

‘No, off to the bloody library aren’t I.’ Tim huffs, rolls his eyes as he does up his belt. ‘He’s been after some book on architecture all day and if I don’t get it now I’ll get a bollocking on Monday, so.’ 

‘Okay,’ Martin half-laughs, exasperated and maybe even a bit bitter. It’s not fair of him, obviously, to think  _ Tim’s _ being mean when he’s the one who just did all that. Told him all those true things when he couldn’t mean them a hundred percent. Duplicitous, selfish bloody - ‘Well, I’m gonna go,’ he says. 

Go to a different concrete room and hang around uselessly until it’s just him and Jon left. Then he’ll pad into the kitchen, purposefully, maybe a bit passive aggressively, in his pyjamas, to make one last tea and deliver it with a pointed ‘ _ goodnight _ ’ that he’s not been looking forward to. 

He’s heading to the door, trying not to look back, when Tim catches one of his belt loops and spins him back around. He’s still smiling, sort of sheepishly sure, but smiling. 

‘This was fun,’ he says, and to his credit he really sounds like he means it. 

‘Yeah,’ Martin agrees tamely. He lets his palms smooth out a bit where they’re caught between them, pressed to the cotton of Tim’s shirt. ‘Yeah it was. Thank you. I shouldn’t have-‘

‘It’s alright,’ Tim promises, ‘really.’ He shuffles, lets his fingertips unfurl so the little denim loops go slack again.

The loss of something holding him this close makes Martin drop back on his heels. He shuffles too, just a few inches back so it doesn’t look like he’s trying to escape. Tim picks coyly at loose threads on his waistband. 

‘Are we,’ he asks, uh.. Are we gonna do this again?’ 

'I don’t know honestly,' Martin says, trying not to think about all the compliments Tim's given him in the last twenty minutes as he says it. 

Tim nods. ‘Alright.' his mouth quirks, and he’s either not fussed or a very very good actor. 

Then he lets go, pushes past too quickly - not that good an actor - and goes to the door. He cracks it open, looks up and down the corridor. 

‘Well,’ his voice is cheery as he looks back, opens the door with a chivalrous flourish. ‘Coast is clear.’

Martin gives him a weak thank you smile as he shuffles through it. He purposefully looks both ways down the corridor and tells himself it's for colleagues, not so that he'll avoid Tim's eyes. 

As he heads off down the corridor he hears Tim call after him and feels awful again. 

‘And - dance card, remember?’ 

This won't happen again, Martin decides as he waves back lamely.  
  


Actually it turns out to barely be ten days before it does happen again. Martin maintains it's probably a bad idea. Tim does casual, and Martin decidedly does not do casual, or has never  _ aimed _ to, no matter how much he wishes he could to avoid getting his hopes dashed. It won’t be sustainable, it’ll hurt someone and he hates to think he could hurt someone, would never want to hurt Tim but... 

It’s just that Jon’s been ignoring him all week again, been storming about with an exhausted frown, and the lattice his guts twist into whilst he watches keeps making him very aware of himself in a way he doesn’t like at all. He’s been lonely and insecure and needy and all the pathetic things he is. And he shouldn’t bother Tim with it. 

But then he catches Tim looking over him as he stretches for the top shelf one Wednesday afternoon and the way it feels to be looked at melts, warm and buzzing through his overthinking. It feels good. To be wanted. He can’t get the feeling of it out of his head. 

He knows he’s bad at being on the receiving end of attention usually, but he can’t shake the memory of coming selfishly apart in Tim’s hands. Can’t stop imagining what else they could do while he’s working though his spreadsheets. If rumours are to be believed Tim is... knowledgeable. And from his own experience he thinks, hopes, goes red with the suspicion, that Tim would  _ want _ to do whatever he might ask for. 

And maybe that's selfish nonsense but he breaks. He caves and stumbles through asking Tim if he’d maybe like to come over one evening. 

‘I’m cooking dinner,’ he clarifies. 

Sasha heads past them. ‘Microwave meals don’t count as cooking,’ she sing songs. 

‘Doesn’t matter, cause you’re not invited,’ Tim tells her. She waves round the corner and he sticks his tongue out. 

God his tongue. Martin bets he’s good with it, bets he’d love being told so. 

‘So,’ Tim says, turning on his suave voice and leaning against the wall. ‘Dinner.’ 

‘Yeah. What do you fancy?’ 

Tim looks him over and licks his lips, clicks his tongue. ‘I’m not fussy,’ he says. 

  
  


And maybe it’s cliched. Maybe it’s a really, really bad line. But it works, doesn’t it?

They leave at 5:02 PM, and for once Martin doesn’t overthink the glare Jon shoots over his glasses, barely catches it. He’s so busy laughing that he misses the worry in Jon’s face as he watches them leave.

They laugh about it on the bus, swaying into each other around corners and bumps in the road. And in terms of just how well Tim lives up to it after he’s wandered round Martin’s flat with his hip popped judging records and books and the contents of the fridge, after he’s made it to the bed with the shittiest, goofiest ‘ _ oh this is where the magic happens, is it? _ ’... Well. It’s nothing if not effective. So maybe it’s not too bad a line after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> wow well well well finally here ..... been writing this for months and im v repressed so this was a struggle for sure bfuwibefeiuwbfi please let me know what u think even if its jus some horny emojis i appreciate reviewing e rated is hard bweuibiweubfwi but pls its literally been months lmaoo 
> 
> thank u everyone for reading uwu
> 
> creds @ monty themlet for the line about martin losing his virginity in the back of his second boyfriend's mum's honda civic x
> 
> and creds to my lovely writers gc for encouragement and horny writing tips...... love u all 
> 
> im currently writing some more of this kinda of vibe as commissions! you can find my prices n details [here](https://babyyodablackwood.tumblr.com/post/627069991313965056/fic-commissions-open)
> 
> i also now have a kofi! if you arent interested in a commission but u like my writing then pls feel free to chuck me a couple quid [here](https://ko-fi.com/chewsdaychillin)
> 
> no pressure but every bit helps if you enjoyed xx


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